Let's Do This Properly

"Toni," I whispered into my phone, I needed to hear her voice, "I'm sorry I freaked out. I just, I can't handle this - it's hard."

She started screaming, "What the fuck Ry, you think this is hard for you? You think you're the only one suffering, but that's it isn't it. Everything is always the fuck about you; I can't feel pain because it might hurt you. Well fuck it, I don't want to talk to you again!" She slammed the phone and I slowly rested my own on my knee.

I didn't see everything, as about me, I was just worried about a lot of things. I didn't mean to sound like a narcissist. I didn't want to hurt her.

My tears came slowly, first as a hiccup then building up.

"Ryan?" My younger sister Surry pokes her head, scared into my room. "What's wrong?" Her childish simplicity is enough to get me to calm down; my sobs slow and I hide my sadness and smile at her.

I wipe my face, “Nothing Surry, everything’s fine, I just feel sad today.”

She walked across my room and sat into my lap, “I love you Ryan,”

I stroke her thin blond hair, “Love you too.”

That’s how we sat, after awhile she fell asleep, nuzzling her baby face into my shoulder. Thirteen years of age difference changed a lot, but we didn’t argue – she was to small for that.

Time passes; my clock turns to 5:40. Surry needs to be woken up.

“Surr,” I lift her from my lap,” baby you got to wake up, what do you want me to make for dinner?”

“Noodles,” she mumbled and rubs the sleep from her eyes, “with sauce.”

“’Kay Sweetie, why don’t you lie down again and I’ll go make your dinner.” She didn’t move in response.

Turning my TV onto her favourite channel I leave to go make her, her dinner.

I’d been making meals for our family for at least five years, Mom didn’t get home from work until seven and dad wasn’t allowed to cook.

“Dad,” I called after closing the door to my room, “I’m making spaghetti for dinner, that’s what Surry wants.”

“Okay Ryan, just make sure to make my sauce without the peppers in it,” he hollered back.

“Yeah dad, I remember that you’re allergic to pepper, you tell me every time,” and he did. Like I couldn’t remember that simple life threatening fact.

It was one of his quirks, and without it he wouldn’t really be my dad.

I hummed to myself as I stirred the sauce into the gigantic silver frying pan we kept under the stove. I poured it in, in small increments, mixing in vegetables as I went.

“Ryan,” Surry came out into the kitchen, her eyes were stained from tears and her shoulders were tense, “they came back,” she whispered.